Bleed So Lovely
by oxycodone
Summary: A dark little piece about Rodolphus's fascination with his wife's violent craving for pain and blood. Rated M for violence, sex, blood play and, ahem, "creative" use of the Cruciatus curse.


_**A/N: **_**A disclaimer: This is written for**** fun, not profit. I do not own anything except the plot. Warnings: violence, blood play, explicit language, mentions of sex and torture. Not for the sensitive eyes !**

_"Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell._  
_Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,_  
_Yet Grace must still look so."_  
_― William Shakespeare, Macbeth._

Rodolphus likes watching Bella torture.

Most of the time, she uses the Cruciatus curse, her favorite. Her curse is so strong and unwavering, he knows that she really wants to cause pain, that she _needs_ it. You have to revel in the beauty of the pain and enjoy the way even the strongest will breaks under the red hot burn of the curse to be as good as she is. She has experienced and caused so much suffering that she needs it to feel alive. She is no cold blooded killer. No, she is full of feeling, as if the lives she takes feed her own life energy.

When she is in one of her moods, pain is the only thing that settles her. When the Dark Lord hasn't provided her with a victim, she is frantic and restless. She's even captured random people off the street once or twice, to torture for the answer to some question unknown even to her. The lowest form of sin: Violence for the sake of violence, with no ulterior motives.

He asks her to make them beg sometimes. Her eyes burn feverishly and she exudes danger and power. He gets off watching her like that, feels desire course through him like electricity each time the poor soul beneath her feet screams for mercy and her mad laugh fills the room.

He knows it's sick, but he can't help but think she's at her most beautiful right after she has taken yet another life and her triumphant smile cuts across her face like a knife.

Sometimes, she uses her knife, or _"her special friend"_, as he mockingly calls it. _She has the kind of relationship with that knife that most muggle women have with their vibrators,_ he thinks, smirking inwardly to his own twisted little joke.

She slices open their skin and the scent of blood and death hangs in the air. Hundreds of cuts, small and large alike, until the blood pools on the floor and her victim is bled out.

When she uses the knife, she somehow looks less human, more like a savage animal, and it makes her all the more beautiful to him. Her whole body becomes alight with the blood thirst, a desperate, carnal need to get as much of their blood on her own skin as possible. She licks off the blood too, sometimes from the blade or her fingers, sometimes directly from the victim's neck.

She usually cuts at night. He knows it's because she thinks moonlight looks beautiful reflected off blood - he knows all the little things that makes her who she is.

And she's right, it _is_ beautiful. It's a sinister, dangerous kind of beauty. The kind of beauty she has herself.

And no matter what method she uses to hurt and bend and break, he always takes her right after the body collapses on the floor, lifeless.

He fucks her against the wall, or lays her down on the pool of blood, painting her snowy complexion red.

Sometimes he presses her own bloodied blade against her throat, his hand slipping just enough to make a shallow cut as he finds his release, her nails scratcing his back, not to be outdone by him, drawing her share of blood too.

Sometimes he decorates her chest with long, thin cuts and tastes her blood, raising his head slightly to stare up at her with a wild grin twisting his features, making _him _look less human as well, his lips stained crimson. He kisses her fiercely, sharing the coppery taste between their mouths.

Sometimes it's him that is pinned down, with her wand pressing down on his throat. She always threatens to use the curse on him, and sometimes he lets her. She does not shriek the word _crucio,_ with her face contorted in rage, like she does with her victims. Instead, she speaks it softly, almost lovingly, as if it's a word of endearment - he sometimes thinks coming from her, it _is_ - and his body is wrecked with the waves of white hot pleasure and the icy burn of pain simultaneously.

She sometimes strokes his hair afterwards, fingers sticky with his blood and her own, matting the strands to his forehead.

He gives her everything he's got - no, he gives _more_ - and takes only what she allows him to take - and it's still more than anyone else in her life can say, maybe except her sisters.

But they don't count, not anymore. This side of her that revels in the violence and craves the blood has driven even her darling Cissy away. The Dark Lord - well, he only sees it as a useful tool against the enemy.

But not Rodolphus. He is _fascinated_ by it. He watches her in this sick fascination, intoxicated by her lethal frenzy, how she is wholly consumed by not only the desire to kill, but to tear apart in agony.

It is one of the many things about her that draws him in and no matter what she does to him, he just can not let go.

**Please review !**


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